by Ellyn, Court
The highborns and ministers rose as Shadryk rose. Among the Zhianese, only La’od stood, but he had been ostracized to the edge of the soldiers’ close circles, and none took note of his gesture. Shadryk grit his teeth and told himself it didn’t matter. Their ways were different from Fieran ways, these sons of goats. In a few weeks they would be in Aralorr with their dragons and, if the Goddess was good, would bring a great many Aralorris to heel.
Cuinn hobbled alongside while Shadryk read the report:
Ulmarr taken. My men and I retreat to Athmar. 2 casualties.
Your servant, Degan, Lord Ulmarr.
Goryth leant over the war table. The pewter pieces had moved.
“He gave up without a fight!” Shadryk shouted, tossing the parchment across the table. “Two men lost and that bastard flies!”
The Warlord sniffed, undaunted by the White Falcon’s tantrum. “It’s possible, sire, that Degan discussed strategies with his sister—”
“Strategies! With Rhorek at Ulmarr, and Nathrachan and Karnedyr decimated, the enemy controls the eastern half of my kingdom!”
“Aye, but I wouldn’t bet so much as a donkey’s cock that Rhorek gets any farther.”
Shadryk assessed the placement of the pieces on the table and tried to reach the same conclusion Goryth had, but fury clouded his mind. “Birél first and now Degan. Why would Degan not opt for a siege? Aralorri resolve, energy, and men would be wasted on a siege.”
“Degan knows Ulmarr’s weaknesses, sire. Could be he and Lady Drona mean to besiege the Aralorris. Or, because Rhorek’s people may be feeling confident by now, if not reckless, the river twins may be hoping to lure them to disaster. My bet, sire, is that Lord Keth planned to smear one host at a time, with Ulmarr next on a long list. Degan’s retreat defeated that plan. Moving becomes tricky. If he proceeds to Brengarra, he’ll have the twins riding up his arse. If he risks men and time to take on the twins, then we’ll move Brengarra’s host to his rear. No, Lord Keth isn’t happy right now.”
“Ah,” Shadryk sighed, his vision clearing. “So unless he has some miracle in the works, his army stays where it is. By the time he conjures that miracle, he will learn that Aralorr has gone up in flame, that his reserves are under attack, and he’ll be forced to give up everything he’s gained. His incursion into my lands will have been for nothing.”
Goryth grinned, showing battle-broken teeth.
“To that end,” Shadryk continued, “have you decided where you will cross the river?”
“There is only one route we can take.” Goryth dropped a finger upon the fortress of Quelstorn. “We’ll cross the Bryna at the break in the Brambles here. The northern end of the Shadow Mounds will hide us, and we’ll have only Towers Last and Hill to contend with. Their fortifications are largely timber, heh. We know how long they’ll hold up. We’ll raze every settlement we come to and take Tírandon from the rear.”
“The day Tírandon goes up in smoke, every herder south of the Bryna will rejoice.”
“I’ll rejoice with them, sire,” Goryth said, lip curled in malice.
As long as Shadryk had known the Warlord, Goryth had held some unspoken grudge against Lord Tírandon. Had his lands been subject to raids, the grudge might’ve made sense, but Machara’s sheep and kine had never been molested by Aralorris. Had it something to do with the last war? Shadryk suspected so.
“Maybe our Zhianese friends will let you use one of their Dragons,” he jested, but Goryth’s grin had faded; he walked in some dark reverie.
The White Mantles flanking the door snapped to attention. Someone was running down the corridor. The guards crossed their swords before the entrance, and La’od stopped just short of beheading himself.
Shadryk waved the Mantles aside and La’od hurried forward, dropped into a bow and exclaimed, “They are brawling, sire. Not just reveling, but brawling! I shouted myself raw trying to stop them, but they heed no one. I fear they’ll tear the castle apart.”
“What incited the fight?”
“One of the scullery maids, sire. Two men, um, ‘claim’ her.”
The farthest Shadryk had permitted the maids to enter the dining hall was to give the next course into the hands of the eunuchs. Some of the Zhianese must’ve escaped the feast and been on the prowl. “We’ve got to get them moving soon, Goryth.”
In the dining hall, the Zhiani warriors formed an arena around two of their comrades who grappled and pummeled one another. Fists buckled into steel gauntlets ripped flesh, and blood spattered Shadryk’s marble floor. Two others held the maid in safe keeping for the victor. Prince Saj’nal showed no indication of stopping the row. With his bare feet propped on the high table, he tossed grapes into the arena, laughed at the blood flow, and cheered on both combatants.
The Zhianese took no more notice of Shadryk’s entrance than they had of his exit. They grew quiet only when their prince stopped laughing and stood. The smack of knuckles into flesh tapered off with the jeering and shouting. “My king friend,” Saj’nal called. When he bowed, his men bowed. “Your servant brings you good news?”
The battle report was none of Saj’nal’s affair, but convincing these barbarians that Shadryk was the strongest man in the room had become everything. The warriors parted and permitted him into the arena. Blood and squashed grapes smeared the floor. The cheek of one combatant hung in loose shreds; the nose of the other was swollen and bent. The scullery maid whimpered; her forearms were bruised. Normally, she wouldn’t look the king in the face, but her eyes pleaded with him. He crooked a finger, and she twisted free of her captors, curtsied hurriedly, then broke through the arena and ran for the kitchens, wailing.
The Zhiani with the broken nose snorted and spat blood in Shadryk’s wake as he continued on to the dais. Saj’nal tried to placate his host’s unhappiness by offering him a fresh goblet of wine. Shadryk set it aside without tasting it. Facing the warriors, he said, “My maids are mine. What kind of fool fights over what is not his? If you tire of your slaves and need feminine company, find it in the city on the street corners. My staff have other duties than to satisfy your lust.”
Saj’nal pawed at Shadryk’s sleeve. “The Great Falcon king will surely forgive these unworthy rutting goats. They think you own so many women that one might be borrowed.”
“One must ask to borrow, Highness,” Shadryk snapped. “Reassure your men that they will soon have the chance to prove themselves. When the winds turn cool, they will march north with the Warlord.”
“Cool? Cool! Already this country is too cold for a man’s good health,” Saj’nal complained, perhaps trying to ease the tension and failing.
“Be that as it may, Highness, until you march, I suggest your men learn to exercise some manly restraint.”
That his warriors should be thought unmanly struck Saj’nal as unexpectedly as an asp in the sand. He gulped and bowed. “They will learn, Great Falcon.”
Passing back through the crowd of warriors, Shadryk was painfully aware of the glares and the straight spines. He may be a king, but little in his manner or appearance bespoke the type of masculinity they revered. They would fight for him only because their prince ordered them to, and if things turned badly they would likely abandon him.
Nearing the doors, he heard one Zhiani say to another, “I would rather be a rutting goat than too pretty to fight my own wars.” Shadryk turned and saw a pair of men leaning together. Obviously they had not intended the king to overhear them, but little about these men, even their whispers, was delicate. One looked at the floor; the other returned a bold stare. The warrior stood a head taller than Shadryk and boasted a lattice of scars upon his face, arms, and chest. He was a veteran among his peers, respected and feared, and though the room reeked of wine, this man was sober. Well-disciplined as well as deadly. He would serve Shadryk’s needs nicely.
“You!” he called. “Follow me outside, and bring a weapon of choice.” The warriors exploded with laughter. Shadryk started for the corridor.
�
��Wait, wait, wait!” Saj’nal bellowed. He sprang over the high table, scattering fruit rinds and goblets. Catching up with Shadryk, he began pawing again. “This goat, Great Falcon, he is my cousin’s cousin. He speaks rashly, the insult means nothing.”
“You coddle your warriors, Highness,” Shadryk said. “Are they unable to take responsibility for their own words?”
Saj’nal’s had to choose between insults: either he admitted his men were weak, or he implied that the White Falcon was incapable of winning the challenge. In the end, he chose to bow aside. Shadryk proceeded to the drilling ground. Goryth and the White Mantles hemmed around him tightly, and the Zhianese followed boisterously, shouting wagers.
Word of the proceedings traveled fast, and the castle garrison filed from the barracks. Long lines of torches lit the drilling ground. The Fierans congregated on one side, the Zhianese on the other.
“Their blood is already up.” Goryth said in Shadryk’s ear. His protruding brow was heavily knotted. “Let me act as your champion.”
“You doubt me, Goryth?”
“I fear for you, sire.”
Shadryk sighed with mock weariness. “You know I loathe to do my own killing, but sometimes it must be done.” In all seriousness, he added, “If I should kill this goat, our men are not to celebrate in the slightest. They mustn’t seem pleased to lose an ally, even at my hand.”
“And if you don’t kill him?”
“Keep the peace for now, then slaughter them while they sleep. Ki’eva is to act as regent until Nathryk comes of age.” Shadryk’s weapons master and a pair of squires arrived with three trays lined with emerald-green velvet. Upon one lay a broadsword topped with a pommel of white stone carved into a falcon’s head. Emerald eyes glistered darkly. On another was his belt of throwing knives. He waved both of these aside and chose the matched pair of fighting daggers from the third tray. Talon and Raptor were eight inches long, double-edged, hilts unadorned, pommels shaped like falcons’ claws curled for the kill.
The offending Zhiani sent a slave into the new barracks; he returned with a long curved scimitar. The Zhiani twirled it deftly, tossed it, caught it, spun with it like an acrobat in a sideshow. His comrades cheered. The Fierans, formed up in ranks, uttered not a sound, though their faces reflected their concern. When Shadryk entered the fighting ground armed with the two small daggers, the Zhiani threw back his shaved head and laughed. Dropping into a defensive crouch, Shadryk beckoned the Zhiani to come get him.
Roaring, the Zhiani charged, swinging and slashing. Shadryk feinted right and dodged to the left, spun away from the scimitar’s frantic arch, and swept Talon across the Zhiani’s shoulder. He cried out, more from shame than pain, and rounded with his sword, ready to take Shadryk’s head, but Shadryk darted from reach. He winked, and the Zhiani bellowed, advancing with some truly impressive acrobats, but he had grown wise to the White Falcon’s tactics. This king did not use brute force, but speed and cunning. This king was the dune lion who waits patiently in the sage to ambush the passing sandbok.
They paced slowly, feinting in and out of reach. The darkness provided a disadvantage to them both. The torchlight dazzled the eyes and mirrored off the weapons, casting illusions of distance and speed. Neither could afford the slightest misjudgment.
“Come, cut me again,” the Zhiani taunted, dancing close, “and I will take your pretty gold head and give it to my wives for a bauble.”
Shadryk only paced and smiled and waited. The Zhiani grew impatient with this slow game of will. He lunged forward, swiping the scimitar in a blinding crisscross pattern. Shadryk somersaulted under the blade’s reach and rose again with a backswing that buried Raptor in the Zhiani’s spine. Shadryk didn’t wait for the man to fall. He flung Talon into the earth and returned to the keep with an unflustered gait. Reaching the threshold, he heard a loud cheering of men. He was surprised to find his garrison standing silently, just as he’d ordered. The cries of praise rose from Zhiani mouths. This pretty, sweet-smelling king had walked away from battle against one of their greatest warriors without a drop of his own blood spilled.
He had won them. Now they were his to command.
~~~~
31
The duke’s court convened at noon. Wearing their silken finery, the highborns gathered at the long council table. The ducal throne stood empty. To receive them in her father’s place, Rhoslyn wore a garnet coronet, her state gown, and a diplomatic smile as false as those adorning the faces of the seamaids painted on the ceiling.
Princess Rilyth and Lord Erum of Brimlad, Rorin of Westport, the Lord Admiral, and Lord Davhin’s representative, the castellan of Vonmora, glared dourly at Captain Rehaan. The pirate-king sat at Rhoslyn’s side, an ankle on his knee in rakish fashion. He grinned and winked back at them.
When the golden morning wine had been poured, Rhoslyn told them her father’s plan.
Rorin sputtered wordlessly, bristling as if Rhoslyn had dealt him a personal insult. Sensible Lord Erum said, “What? Is this the best we can do?”
With a huff, the princess said, “My brother will never approve. If His Grace is determined to follow this course, I must insist that this … this brigand … swear an oath of allegiance to His Majesty.”
Rehaan surged to his feet. Erum’s arm darted across the princess, and Rorin came half out of his chair, a hand on a dagger’s pommel. Rhoslyn had warned Rehaan to mind his temper and his tongue during the audience; he did not now disappoint her but laughed at the highborns’ fear of him.
Rorin puffed up like a peacock, and Erum turned his nose up and away.
Rehaan sobered and said, “I have sworn allegiance. To His Grace and his successor, and that’s enough. My ship and my soul belong to them. I’ll follow any order they give, and should a king’s order come to me through them, sure I’ll follow that too—that, on my word, Highness, whatever credence my word may hold with you.”
“Next to none, I assure you,” she replied.
Rhoslyn cast a cursory glance toward the far end of the Duke’s Hall. Zellel and Kieryn flanked the doorway, silent and alert. Their presence calmed her nerves. A few days before, when she had climbed off the Aurion, Kieryn had looked worn and pale. She thought he had merely worried himself sick until he told her about the bandits in the Pass. By today, however, he had rebounded and looked resplendent—and unmistakably avedra—in the rich blue robe. After the audience, she would ask him what the highborns really thought of the duke’s scheme.
Rilyth took note of him as well, and her face brightened. “Young Kieryn,” she called. “Join us, won’t you.”
Hesitant, Kieryn obeyed. Instead of sitting alongside the other highborns, he sat on Rhoslyn’s side of the table, not next to her, but two chairs down. Distant, wary.
“Your apprenticeship goes well?” Rilyth asked, looking him over.
“Yes,” he said, appearing to share Rhoslyn’s suspicions about the princess’s reasons for including an Aralorri in Evaronnan affairs.
“Are you able, then, to tell me if treachery lurks in this pirate’s mind?”
“No, my dear,” Erum protested.
Rorin mumbled secretively with Vonmora’s castellan.
“Able, Your Highness,” Kieryn said, though a taut smile added that he would not.
“Then tell me this: would your father wish to be identified with these pirates?” The confident turn of her lips demonstrated how certain she was of the answer.
For a long while, Kieryn remained silent. Rhoslyn’s heart hurt for him. These narrow-minded snobs were looking to him for support, perhaps understanding that his stance would hold weight with her. Angry as she was that Rilyth would try to use Kieryn against her, she was curious to know where he stood on the matter. He knew his place too well, however, and hadn’t spoken for or against the duke’s wishes. Even now he was careful. “To know my father’s mind, Highness, I would need to be in the same room with him.” The facetiousness of the remark puzzled Rilyth; Rhoslyn bit off a grin. “However, if a
pirate sought an alliance with the War Commander, I think my father would be practical enough to take advantage of the offer.”
Rorin snorted. “This besotted sorcerer will say anything that furthers Lady Rhoslyn’s cause. Lord Keth would no sooner agree to this absurd scheme than I do.”
Kieryn’s teeth grit audibly, and he splayed his arms along the table, like a snow cat ready to pounce. “Dare you compare yourself to my father, you complacent, blind-sighted bastard?”
Rilyth gasped.
Rorin jumped to his feet, mouth open with a challenge, but the Lord Admiral tugged his wrist and hissed, “Sit down.” Rorin obeyed but cursed Kieryn with narrowed eyes. Kieryn sat back languidly, appearing wholly unaffected. Rhoslyn felt herself gaping and closed her mouth. Where had this audacity come from? Kieryn had always deferred to Rorin, preferring to keep the peace. Rhoslyn suspected he hadn’t told her everything that had happened on his travels. When she had seen the strange green stripes on his wrists, he’d said, “Marks of valor,” but offered nothing more.
Rehaan was chuckling at the squabbling highborns, and Rhoslyn scolded them one and all, “Enough of this. We will be civil. His Grace could simply demand your cooperation. Instead, he invited you here out of consideration and respect.”
“Of course, you’re right, my lady,” Beryr agreed. Rhoslyn could’ve kissed him.
Erum rapped his knuckles on the table. “If I may?” Rhoslyn nodded for him to proceed. “My worry is that the Leanians will disapprove. If Bano’en is considering joining the fight in reaction to the attack on Lady Alovi and Lord Allaran”—Rhoslyn cast a frantic eye on Kieryn, for this was something he had neglected to mention, but he held up a finger to ease her concern—“then our alliance with pirates may sway him against sailing with us.”
